The friendliest city in Ireland...

(Note, the attached picture is actually not from my adventures on the Emerald Isle. Indeed, it is of the newest addition to the Noah's Landing menagerie, a healthy baby sloth. I just wanted to show her off.)

Before landing in Derry in mid-September, there were only two things I knew about the city. First, according to one rather helpful policeman in London named "Paul", Derry is known across the U.K. as the "friendliest city on the island." And secondly, for students of Irish history, Derry harkens a much darker claim to fame as the location of "Bloody Sunday," the 1972 massacre of civil rights marchers by British officials.

In my short time here, it amazes me that both descriptions can fit. When I came back to my flat yesterday, I was elated to find a piece of mail addressed to me. Instead of some sort of overseas correspondence, however, it was a short note from someone on campus. "Carolyn, hope you didn't look too far for this. Cheers!" And inside, my lost student ID.

When I couldn't find the ID at first, I imagined I might have left it in a computer lab or at a registration table on campus. Surely, I hoped, someone might return it to student services. Never, however, did I imagine someone would take the time to look up my address, slip it into an envelope, and mail it to my flat. Friendliest city, indeed.

That friendliness, I've discovered, has its limitations.

I headed to a pub with my flatmates last night to watch the Manchester United game. Barry, a good friend of my flatmate Kerry, is a huge fan. As the boys watched, motionless, as the ball crisscrossed the pitch, I sat down with Kerry (from NY) and Sarah (from Derry) to debate matters of much more urgent importance, such as which footballers were the most attractive, whether the mark above one's lip was indeed a birthmark or herpes, and just how likely it is that Brad and Angelina will get married.

Somehow, and I can't recollect today, our conversation shifted to Great Britain. Sarah, a Derry Catholic, couldn't hold in her disdain for the English. Not that I could be surprised after hearing her story. Her parents were both witnesses to bloody Sunday. They brought back stories of women begging for their lives as British soldiers pointed guns in their faces. Screaming that they were mothers, daughters, wives. They shared scenes of blood and of cold brutality. Relived the screams and the shots. As Sarah talked, I couldn't help but be horrified and transfixed by her story.

(NOTE: I'm not attempting to glorify the Catholic side or condemn the British, just to tell a story. I know full and well that everyone's recollection is tainted by personal circumstance but objectivity will be the matter of my thesis, not my every day musings.)

Then, we began talking about the IRA and Sarah revealed that a family member had once been blown up while trying to plant a bomb for the IRA. Since he died on the "job," so to speak, the IRA offered to pay for the funeral and for a full, Catholic Irish burial complete with a coffin draped in the orange and green flag. The family refused.

It's still hard to grasp just how much the Troubles have touched every family in the North. It seems everyone that I engage in conversation knows someone, is related to someone, or once loved someone who lost their life. Even the kindest, friendliest eyes turn dark when discussing the injustices of both sides.

On a brighter note, however, the media has been abuzz with news that the IRA passed decommissioning inspections which, many newspaper believe, is a giant leap forward for peace. One would hope.